


Let's Go Home, Pads

by PaulaMcG



Series: Lie Low at Lupin's [1]
Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Animagus, Bathing/Washing, Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Food, Gen, Goblins, Hurt/Comfort, Lie Low At Lupin's (Harry Potter), M/M, Memories, Muggles, Post-Sirius Black in Azkaban, Poverty, Regret, Restaurants, Reunions, Sirius Black Free from Azkaban, Werewolf Remus Lupin, working
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:36:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23580178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaulaMcG/pseuds/PaulaMcG
Summary: Sirius Black has hurt his paws. Remus Lupin needs to wash some dishes, while his goblin landlady wants to get her money and to see the famous fugitive. A story inspired by Dumbledore’s legendary words at the end of GoF: “Lie low at Lupin’s.” – this time without a cottage.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: Lie Low at Lupin's [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697395
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	Let's Go Home, Pads

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written in early 2005. I'm still grateful to Marymcbeth of the Snitch Forums for encouragement and inspiring interpretations, and to manraviel and Sugarjess of Fiction Alley for excellent beta work – for doing their best to spot everything that could be corrected and for making various suggestions to improve the text – and to Livejournal user minnow_53 for invaluable help in editing one jarring paragraph.
> 
> This story can be read separately from my other fanfic, including my other LLAL fic, although all my fics belong to the same Rowling's-first-five-novels-compliant universe.
> 
> Sirius and Remus will never help me make any money.

My paws are bleeding. Why don’t I just turn into a man and Apparate? But I’m too weak to move long stretches like that, either. 

Here I am without fur again. I lift my palms from the dirt of the road. Should find water to clean the wounds – on the soles of my feet, as well. Too weary to Apparate at all, I limp among the trees and sit down, leaning my back against a trunk. If I don’t use the magic, why should I stay a man? 

Why shouldn’t I? In these woods there’s nobody to catch me. And it’s a warm June night. No need for fur to protect me, really. These old rags still cover my body in the way I’ve got used to.

But I suppose I’d like any shelter which the dog’s simpler mind could offer. Or rather, the chance to fill my mind with what the dog’s senses would tell me about this moment. The man’s thoughts in me are hardly more advanced. They just appear more haunting, because the man’s senses don’t tell me much any longer. I’ve been the dog too often. 

Now I must practise being the man. I must make sense of this… mind. 

Harry. Harry has helped me act as if I were sane. But now, when he’d been through this new terror and it filled his mind, I could do nothing but squeeze his shoulder and promise him we’d see each other soon. How can I keep even that promise? And I thought I was protecting him, giving him advice how to get through his tasks in that bloody tournament.

Why didn’t I find the rat instead? Why didn’t Remus find him? Why did we let him escape a year ago? Why didn’t we just kill him! Harry didn’t want to see us become murderers. But now he blames himself for the death of that boy, as if it weren’t enough to have seen your friend being murdered.

At least Harry is alive. But I know it’s not always the greatest blessing to be alive when your mind is in hell. 

His body, too. The rat dared touch Harry’s body, and Voldemort tortured him. Voldemort will never defeat Harry. But I don’t want this to happen to him. He is not the James who had to defy Voldemort. He’s James when… James rescued that other son of a…

It’s my fault again. If I was once ready to send Snivellus to be mauled by a werewolf without thinking what it meant… why didn’t I kill the rat? Not with Remus but by myself. How could I even ask him to do it with me? I should have thought... but I… I forget. 

I think I had forgotten Remus was a werewolf. There must be something else I’ve forgotten. And now I’m on the way to surprise him again.

It’s a long way, but is it long enough? Buckbeak could have flown me fast to London, but I had this great idea to take him back to Kathy’s. There’s no space for a hippogriff in that miserable room. Is there space for me?

At least I know I wouldn’t stay at Kathy’s, even if Dumbledore hadn’t ordered me to Remus’s place. I didn’t even want to see her again. Just left a note in her letterbox and Buckbeak in the garage, where he’d stayed in the winter. Luckily I’d learnt to open the door with magic. Really, I’m a genius. Just like that. Alohomora! Without a wand. 

But I should have tried to Apparate closer to London before hunger made me this weak. Why did I hesitate? I still do. I wouldn’t go, if I didn’t have to take the news. It’ll be Remus’s task to alert the others. I doubt Dumbledore has even bothered to tell the Order members anything about this little issue of my innocence. I’m not exactly dying to explain.

Remus is better at explaining. He’s better… If only I could remember how good he is. 

I’ll sleep now, for a moment, and Apparate after waking up. Curled up like this I should be able to… Oh yes, I almost forgot I wasn’t a dog yet.

Now the sounds and the scents of the night wash over my mind. And I can lick this wound until sleep conceals it all completely.

Remus Apparated straight from his room to the alley, so as not to disturb his landlady. The sun was already high enough to bathe the small shabby square in gentle light, and she probably slept no later than he did on these days. However, it was never wise to be seen or heard by her, except when he was able to pay off some of his debt.

Having crossed the square, he sat down on his regular bench to enjoy his breakfast and the newspaper. He was reconciled with living in one scarcely furnished room, but whenever the weather was bearable he found it simply natural to use this square as his garden. There were only a few bushes and a small patch of unkempt grass, but the bench with its peeling paint felt surprisingly comfortable. Sitting here, surrounded by the ramshackle buildings, which were inhabited by part-humans, squibs and poor wizards, he was defiantly declaring that there was somewhere he belonged, if he chose to.

He had not hidden in his room during the winter either. Still, in the pub he had mainly sought warmth and avoided contact with anyone. His only companion had been the poster depicting the famous fugitive, who had glared at him opposite his favourite seat by the fireplace. He had kept himself busy by writing letters, pretending that he had paid for and got his cup of tea. Trying to forget that he had not eaten. Writing never-ending letters, fooling himself into believing that everything would be better soon.

Soon enough the weather at least had changed. He had lived to become patient, and one winter was certainly not a long time for someone who had waited for twelve years. No, not waited. Not hoped. But built up his belief in the past at least. Learnt to receive the gifts of life again.

Soon enough, albeit not before he had got too ill to even look for work. He almost felt pleasure at the thought that he might actually have not survived this winter without the unexpected visit. 

Sometimes he doubted Sirius had really been there for one night. He had been in delirium at least for a day. When recovering, he had found food beside his bed, and only after eating had he started wondering and gradually remembering. And he had felt ashamed. Too happy to hate himself, but still ashamed and regretful. 

Sirius had been tortured for twelve years, on the run for almost two years, a destitute. And Remus had not had anything at all to offer to him. He had not even had the state of mind and body to give Sirius some halfway decent robes to wear on the long road to Hogsmeade. Remus himself had been fed and tucked back in bed with all his clothes on, and he had slept. 

And things had got better. He had got well enough and finally even found some work again. 

Now it was so warm that he no longer needed his robes to wear on the way. He was shamelessly sitting here in his ragged t-shirt and jeans, ready to sell his labour to Muggles. 

Today he knew where to go. He had been hired for two days, and that was why he had not been paid yesterday. That was why his breakfast was what he had saved from yesterday’s lunch – a piece of bread and an apple – and the newspaper was from the day before yesterday, given graciously to him by his landlady the previous time he had brought home some money and surrendered most of it to her.

He was not in a hurry, since his job was in a Muggle restaurant where he was only needed as a dishwasher in the afternoon and the evening. Therefore, he ate slowly, and he kept leafing the paper, although his thoughts escaped to surprisingly happier issues. He had started dreaming again. A headline reminded him of the possibility for another change. The Triwizard Tournament was finishing…

But now, on the previous night, the third task had already taken place! He felt an urge to rush to the corner grocery store to see the fresh issue of the Daily Prophet. Even though he did not have a single Knut to buy something, he could still go in to read the new headlines. 

At that moment he heard a reassuring sound. Hooting. A small tawny owl landed on his knee and started pecking at his trousers, catching crumbs. He shared the rest of his bread with the bird, before removing the letter from her leg. Refusing to anticipate bad news, he expected to see a short note from Sirius, announcing that the Tournament was happily over and that he would drop by on his way from Britain to somewhere safer. This time Remus would not ask for Dumbledore’s permission. He would go, too. To the south. Or anywhere. Maybe they could even take Harry with them for the summer…

Dumbledore’s handwriting. When had it started to irritate him?

Remus,

Harry is all right and has won the Tournament. But he has been through a hard confrontation with Voldemort. Yes, Voldemort regained his body last night – with involuntary help from Harry and help from Peter, as well. Sirius will come to stay with you and tell you about it all in detail. After that you are to contact all the members of the Order.

Albus. 

He stared at the parchment, closed his eyes and continued to see the names. Sirius. Harry. Voldemort. Peter. Sirius. That was too much. Too much to brood over. He had to go and work and get something for dinner. Maybe Sirius would be home in the evening. Yes, home. There would be time to think about the rest. Today, while working perhaps, after all. He had to clear his mind as well as he could without knowing more. 

The warm, humid air in the windowless room was saturated with a mixture of odours, and they filled Remus with hunger and nausea. Burnt liver and aubergine, wine and detergent, olive oil and garlic. He grabbed another plate and slid the half-eaten steak into the bin, trying not to look at it. The red sauce, enticing yet repulsive, stained his fingers as he put the plate in the rack. He aimed a quick, powerful shower on the dishes and pushed the rack into the machine. When the chattering of the pipes started, he moved away as close to the swing door as he could without getting in the way of the chef, who might rush into the kitchen without warning. 

Leaning against the wall, he peeked into the restaurant hall through the steamy glass of the door. There were only a few customers left. Athanasios had prepared the last portions, and after chatting with some patrons for a while, he was likely to come and say that he would take care of the rest by himself. 

It was Remus’s habit to check the appearance of the customers at any opportunity. These regulars were immigrants from Greece. He could hear their laughter and exclamations, and the draught through the crack of the door no longer brought in fresh air but the sickening smell of strong tobacco instead. However, he ventured to reach out and push the door a little, so as to see the features of the lone figure in another corner of the small restaurant.

The man’s thin, colourless hair was in such contrast with the black curls of the smokers in the noisy group that Remus shivered. At the next moment, however, a mixture of relief and disappointment, as well as tender sadness, spread through him slowly like another wave of his familiar fatigue. He leant back against the wall, letting the door swing closed. Still, he knew that his extraordinary visual memory would not allow him to dispel the image of what he had just seen. The plump, flushed cheeks of a middle-aged man, creases around his pale eyes, and a tiny smile evoked by the simple pleasure of having a meal in relaxed privacy. Even the pointed nose was right, and, above all, the chubby hands holding the cutlery, short fingers – yes, all ten of them. That was how one of his closest friends could have looked like at this age.

He had kept searching for Peter. No, he had not chased the rat, though that was almost all Sirius had written about in his short notes, in addition to Harry’s news. While Remus had just hopelessly wished that Sirius had truly been here with him, not only in the moving images of the posters and of his mind, there had always been a possibility that he would come across Peter. Not very likely, particularly not in the wizarding world. But what about in Muggle London?

An Animagus in animal form does not lose his human mind. The senses and the instincts of the animal might overshadow some nuances of emotion and reason, but the knowledge gained by the human is certainly there. Still in Peter after all these years. How had he lived with it? Not in complete isolation from humans. He could have tried to live among real rats. Instead, he had, probably almost immediately after his faked death, ended up living in a family. And in what a wonderful family! 

During the past year Remus had spent a lot of time wondering how Peter’s life had been. Sometimes it had been easier to think about Peter than Sirius. Less painful if not less complicated. It had started with his guilt of having ignored the approaching moonrise and thus having ruined Sirius’s chances for rehabilitation. That had been followed by the horror of what he had almost done to Peter – and to himself. The selfish relief and belated fear. 

A werewolf – this one, at least – did lose his human mind in the transformation. Almost completely, almost without exception. But on that fateful night the wolf would not have harmed anyone. Thanks to the potion he had taken during the previous week, or thanks to the presence of his friend, or of the two of them. He could have just caught Wormtail, had Padfoot not tried to stop him and thus inadvertently caused the delay.

Remus was still not sure about all the effects of the Wolfsbane Potion in case the last dose before the full moon was not taken. In those months when Snape had been obliged to provide his colleague with the potion, Remus had experienced almost disturbing passivity throughout the day preceding the full moon. The transformation pain had been as excruciating as always – perhaps more terrible because it had been sudden, not gradually growing as it normally was, and because he had kept his conscious mind all through it. Still, having acquired the wolf form, he had been unable to act at all and had simply slept – with a shadow of reasoning that it was also good to gain strength for the ordeal of transforming back at moonset.

But on that fateful evening, just before the passivity should have been reinforced by the final gobletful of foul smoking potion… When he had been watching that Harry and his friends would be safe on their farewell visit to Buckbeak, he had seen the names on their old map. First Peter. Then Sirius. Too much to comprehend. Too much to allow him to refrain from acting, finding out. Simply joining them.

Getting them back in his life. He had never truly dared to think what Sirius had been through in Azkaban. During Sirius’s first year as a fugitive, Remus had hardly looked at the posters and the pictures in the Prophet. Still, he had wanted to return from Crete in summer 1993 as soon as he had heard the news. Without any clear thought. What could he have said to Dumbledore, who – typically – had acquired the knowledge of his arrival before he himself had figured out how to earn his first meal in England? 

“Are you after Sirius? Or is he after you, Remus?”

Why had he asked – the all-knowing wizard, who never asked anything? Remus had only shaken his head. “You know as much as I do. Or do you know more?”

He had not turned down Dumbledore’s offer of a teaching position at Hogwarts. Why should he have? He had managed not to regard it as an act of charity, since he had gained enough experience and thus self-esteem to take pride in his ability to teach people of all ages. The Dark Arts and particularly the Dark creatures were not unknown to him either. The thought of a permanent shelter and guaranteed meals alone had been almost overwhelming, not to mention a regular salary. At his request Dumbledore had written a letter announcing his appointment as the professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts, and that had helped him sleep and eat on credit at the Leaky Cauldron until the beginning of the autumn term. Throughout the year he had spent most of his salary on paying off that debt as well as other debts he had left unpaid in Crete, Angola and Paris. 

He had been so rich that year – finally able to give something back to those who had helped him during his drifting years. Not needing much of the money himself, he had just enjoyed the delicious and heavy food, the fireplaces in the cosy rooms within the stone walls, and the company of both the other teachers and the children – especially the children, who had not nurtured any feelings of pity for one or another reason. So much of his long-term social and material privation had receded during those terms of teaching that he had gradually ventured to approach the core of his old grief. To almost make friends with James and Lily’s son, as well as Frank and Alice’s, and to delve into the memories of his old friends. The best memories, above all. 

It had been impossible to avoid questioning once again why he had lost them all. But quite as impossible to imagine good old Padfoot as a murderer in disguise. It had still been no business of Dumbledore’s that Remus had once allowed his friends to become Animagi to ease his pain. He had fooled himself into believing that whoever had broken into Gryffindor tower had been a totally different villain, an alien. At the same time he had dreamt of coming across the graceful young rebel in the dark deserted corridor beyond his classroom or on the road to Hogsmeade, during one of his long lonely Sunday walks.

“Go away!” he would have said to Sirius. “I don’t know why you ended up doing what you did. I’d like to hear that you never wanted them to die. But you don’t have to give any explanations to me. Above all, you don’t have to threaten anyone here, least of all Harry. Go away. I don’t want your soul to be sucked out. If you have something of it left, go far away and try to live with it until the end. You know it’s hard for me to imagine how it’s possible. If I had done what you did, I would have damned my soul for eternity. Even if I were responsible for just one death. But was I, after all?”

That’s what he would have said to Sirius, and a lot more. He might have actually been forced to follow Sirius, so as to manage to say all he wanted to. To escape with him, far away, and to keep him from ever killing more people, at least.

He had prepared himself for such unrealistic situations. And yet he had not been prepared at all for facing the villain of the posters. The gaunt filthy creature crumbled and bleeding at Harry’s feet. Sirius’s eyes deep in that face of a corpse. 

Still, in an instant he had comprehended. If Sirius said Ron Weasley’s rat was Peter, then Peter had been the traitor. He really had not needed Sirius to explain anything at all to him. His heart had been breaking when he had embraced the shadow of the man he had loved. He had not afforded to stop to think about what had been done to that man and what was left of him after such suffering. Instead, he had forced himself to explain it all to the children and to make Peter confess. At that moment it had been easier not to cry for Peter. Too much easier. 

Perhaps the earlier doses of the potion accounted for something. At least for the absence of the ache which should have warned him, spreading from his insides into his bones and towards his skin. Still, he was responsible. He had certainly not been passive in that situation. And how often had he in their youth, in his better days of the month as well, replied to Sirius’s suggestions with such carefree words full of hidden exhilaration as when together confronting their old friend: “Yes, I think so.”

A moment later, admittedly, he had not argued against Harry’s decision not to have Peter killed. Had he finally paid attention to the first traces of the transformation pain and realised how close the moonrise was, he would have stayed behind and the others would have taken Peter to the castle. But, unintentionally, he had ended up saving Peter from the Dementor’s kiss – as well as condemning Sirius to continuing to hide. 

What good did it do to mull all this over and over again in his mind? All his analyses, conclusions and plans had turned out wrong, worthless and worse.

If they had really killed Peter, Sirius’s innocence could not have been proved either. There had been a time during this past year when Remus had concluded that what had happened had actually been the best alternative. Both his friends were at least free and had their souls – whatever was left of them.

On that cold February night, while serving the meal he had stolen for his host, Sirius had, for a change, been the one analysing the alternatives.

“You know, Harry was wrong in saying the rat shouldn’t be killed. And now I know why. I didn’t know then, but I’ve been thinking. The rat deserves to be killed. Nobody deserves Azkaban. I should know. But the rat deserves to be killed, after he’s had a chance to repent. To kill him would have been more merciful than handing him over to the Dementors. But if I find him, I wonder if I’ll manage to treat him so mercifully. Maybe if I don’t stop to think. I’ll just kill him.” 

Yes, having recovered from his fever, Remus had remembered those words, to which he had listened quietly. He knew now that at that fateful moment he had not truly been able to think clearly, either. He had mustered a façade of determinate action and of being in control of the whole situation. Instead, he had not been able to think about Peter’s or Sirius’s good any more than about the fact what tasting human blood – depriving anyone of his life – would have done to his own soul, to the rest of his humanity. 

But what difference did it make whether his motives had been selfish or not? The point was that he had not only undone Sirius’s hopes for being declared innocent and for a life as a truly free man, but had also scared Peter off. 

“You should have realised. If Voldemort didn’t kill you, we would. Goodbye, Peter.”

After those words, how could Peter ever be found? 

Remus did not know if he had really wished Peter had come. What if Peter actually spent some time as a man in Muggle London? Had dinner at little restaurants like this one? Though Remus had effectively prevented Peter from ever thinking about coming to his old friend to ask for shelter or advice, one day they could have seen each other by pure coincidence. What would Remus have said? The same words he had planned to say to Sirius a year earlier? But he had considered it most likely that Peter had already gone away for good. Far away or among real rats. 

Why did he feel pity for Peter when thinking about the family Wormtail had lost? He may have had the role of only a pet, but the family had been more loving than he had ever had before – except the group of friends he had once belonged to. And whatever had led him to betraying those friends, he had perhaps felt reconciled, even redeemed, when continuing a half-life of cover-up, without being acknowledged as a person.

How could Remus feel so much pity for Peter? He still could not believe that Peter had meant his friends to die or suffer. 

There had been times, of course, when any thought of Peter had been unbearable because of the threat of devastating rage. Even in case Peter had been forced to betray James and Lily, he should not have let Sirius pay for it. Even if the deaths of the twelve outsiders had been an accident – after Sirius had been taken to Azkaban for that, Peter should have come out to plead guilty. How could Remus ever forgive Peter? Particularly after what Peter had done to Sirius.

Remus had no need to actually think about what Sirius had been through in order to feel it himself, to some extent. His own worst experiences allowed him to reach a mere shadow of the extreme torment, and still it was almost too much to bear. The cold and malnutrition tempting the body to give up the struggle to survive. But what about the mind? Whenever he had tried to think about it, it had been hard for Remus to understand what had been done to Sirius. 

He had to admit that he did not know Sirius any longer. He had tried his best. Written long letters to let Sirius learn to know him again. But Sirius had not returned the favour. Then again, what could Remus expect? On the basis of what he had heard of Azkaban, it was a miracle that Sirius was alive, not to mention sane. But he was, and somewhere in there was the man Remus had loved.

Remus had seen him in the glint of those sunken eyes immediately. The same man had taken care of Remus in that winter night. Unless it had been a dream.

In any case, now Sirius was on his way home. That was the reason Remus did not feel ashamed to ask for permission to take some leftovers with him from the restaurant. 

He was gradually getting impatient waiting for the chef to come to the kitchen. To speed things up a bit, he went to find a box into which he could pack the food, but he did not dare to start moving the moussaka from the casserole yet. Hopefully, the delay in the company of his fellow countrymen meant that Athanasios was in a good mood. Perhaps he had sat down to drink ouzo and totally forgotten that he was supposed to pay his dishwasher. 

This was the third time Remus was substituting for the owner’s only employee, whose duties included both washing up and waiting at the tables. Remus, however, had not been passed for a waiter, and he was not allowed to enter the restaurant hall. Athanasios took care of the customers himself and made Remus participate in preparing the meals, instead, as Remus had let on that cooking was not a complete mystery to him. When he had first ventured in to ask for work, the chef had been excited to hear Remus greet him in Greek.

“Give me your number, and I’ll call you when I need help at the taverna,” the jovial, plump man had said.

“Number… I beg your pardon?”

“You don’t have a phone?”

“Oh, yes. I mean no. I’m sorry, I don’t have a telephone.”

“You have an address at least?”

The chef’s expression had grown a bit suspicious as he eyed Remus’s appearance more carefully. Once again Remus had realised that his manner of speech and his convincing facial expressions could make people overlook his shabby clothes for a while. But after a second glance and a second thought it was inevitable that he was not presentable anywhere like in a restaurant hall, not only because of the clothes but also because of his sickly face and figure. Still, he had been able to honestly reassure the chef that he had a permanent place to stay, and that he was reliable and would drop by regularly, because he was particularly interested in working in a Greek restaurant, having once lived in Greece and loved the country. He knew that this was exactly what a Greek immigrant wanted to hear. 

“Endáxi! Teliósame?” 

There he was at last, cheerfully checking or rather declaring that the work had been done. A slightly tipsy Athanasios, beaming like the sun over Irakleion. He took out a wad of notes; there was apparently no need to remind him of the payment. On the other hand, this meant confirmation of the fact that there would be no work for Remus on the following day. Then again, he might be happy to stay at home. Now he needed to stop Athanasios and ask about the food first.

“Could I have some of the pay in kind, please? I mean, if I could take the rest of that moussaka, I wouldn’t have to cook at home tonight,” he said, and couldn’t resist adding with a genuine grin, “I’m expecting a guest, who might be already waiting.”

Athanasios winked at him. “Mia kopélla periméneis?” 

Clearly amused by the idea that Remus was looking forward to a girl’s visit, the chef packed the food, even some pastry for pudding, in boxes and shoved into Remus’s hands a bottle of retsina as well as more cash than he or even his landlady could have expected. The chef’s generosity would allow Remus to both make the landlady satisfied for a couple of days and keep some money for himself. 

In the cool dusk of the summer night Remus turned around the corner into a deserted alley. Here he stopped to take out his wand from the back pocket of his jeans and performed a shrinking charm on the boxes and the bottle in order to be able to carry them in his pockets. But he kept one piece of baklavah in its original size and, having eaten the overly sweet pastry, he felt he had enough energy to succeed in Apparating. In an instant he was in his own square.

He could immediately discern the figure of a large black dog lying under the bushes behind his bench. Some movement in the foliage made Remus realise that the crack of Apparition had stirred up the dog from sleep, which had perhaps not been more than shallow slumber, and almost made it recoil. Still, the dog was neither scared off nor encouraged enough to come and greet him. He could see the dog’s eyes glinting in the light of the lantern, but the dark figure remained curled up, immobile. 

Remus took the few steps to stand close to the bench, leant over and reached out his hand, intending to pat the dog. He could feel both a wide smile spreading over his face and his eyes brimming with tears. No, Sirius did not want to see tears. He turned and sat down on the bench, took a deep breath and whispered, “Pads, come here!”

He let his hand down over the edge of the bench, and in a moment he felt a snout touching his skin. The snout was warm and dry, and his joy was mixed with concern. He tilted his head back and looked up at the darkening sky, so as to prevent the tears from rolling down, while his hand moved to caress the dog’s head and thin sides. As soon as he could rely on his voice again, he stood up and said, “Let’s go home, Pads.”

When I’m looking for a place to hide and to watch his front door, I find his scent on this square. It’s strongest on this bench. I lay my body down on the cool soil just behind it, under some bushes. I continue to sense that he’s been here, but it doesn’t evoke any disturbing thoughts. The idea that he’ll be back sometime is vague enough. I give up looking at the building. I’d rather not remember that winter night: the frozen pavement and his face… No, that memory makes me shiver, though the afternoon sun is almost too hot. 

Did I sleep for a long time? Waking up, I’m ready to transform into a man and Apparate. Luckily, at the last moment, I remember that I’ve already done that: early in the morning. I made it in one piece to a safe spot in a particular small patch of wood in the suburbs. It’s good to be so talented at magic, especially at the wandless type. And to be an Animagus, of course. I wouldn’t be me, if I weren’t Padfoot the dog. 

No, I wouldn’t be… Sometimes I wonder if it’s only the dog who survived. And even the dog is thin and shaggy. And weak. Spent hours trotting on my poor paws to this neighbourhood, though the route was familiar. Back the same way which I’d wandered after leaving him, before seeking shelter at Barbara’s. 

Why should I spare her a thought now? It’s best for both Muggle ladies not to see more of me. I’ll bring Buckbeak back from Kathy’s soon, when I just get in touch with some Order members who can hide him. I miss the beauty – the hippogriff, of course, not the woman. I was good at making friends in those days when we sometimes escaped the worries of the war to Muggle discos. Remus used to enjoy dancing and singing along the silliest songs like: “Hands up! Baby, hands up! Give me your love…” Where did that come from? 

And when is he coming? It’s getting dark. Dumbledore told me to stay at his place, so I guess I have to wait. Unless someone tries to catch me. This is certainly not the safest place for me to sleep. 

That’s it! A crack. Someone’s Apparated on the square. A garlic-loving Auror or Death Eater?

No, it’s him. My body relaxes a bit, and I stare at him. He never liked garlic, and now he stinks so much that I can hardly recognize his own smell. The light of the lantern is behind his back, so it’s hard to say if he looks better than last time. I certainly hope he doesn’t look worse. No, the way he walks to me tells me that he’s at ease, a little tired perhaps, but full of… hope?

Such a smile I haven’t seen since… Does he want to play, sitting down on the bench and calling his dog? Now it’s easy to just obey. All right, pat my head then. You don’t want to look at me. I’m a filthy starved dog, I know. But these jeans and t-shirt of yours have certainly seen better days, too – literally, yes, I could swear these clothes are the same you had in those days when we used to go out to dance. There it is again: I can almost remember you. See you as you used to be, I mean. Yes, I’ll come with you… home. 

We both check that there’s nobody watching, before we approach the goblin’s building. She must be paranoid and not only eccentric as he has described her in the latest letters. He needs to use both his wand and Muggle keys before we can enter. In the murky hallway, at the foot of the steep narrow staircase, he whispers to me, “Are you able to Apparate up to the room?”

I would have preferred not to turn into a man yet. But I’ve had enough rest, so I venture to Apparate immediately after the transformation. He hardly has enough time to take a look at me and to touch my shoulder.

When he follows me I’m already sitting on the windowsill. The warmth in this room has begun to soothe my mind. Not that I was cold, but a moment ago the memory was too vivid. At this time of the year, of course, the large windows covering the whole south wall must make the place too hot. He has left a window open, and this is the best spot to settle. I can enjoy the cool breeze and see far over the neighbourhood. 

After the sound of his Apparition I can rather smell than hear him taking a few steps towards me. Yes, even my human nose makes my head swirl with the stink of burnt grease and garlic. I turn my face further away from him and breathe in the evening air, even though it reeks of rotten waste, and I don’t look at him when he speaks. “You can be seen… I’m not going to conjure any light.” 

Why doesn’t he argue and order me to come away from the window? I hope he’s not apathetic like last time. No, he’s just become so wise that he has the compromises ready. But this compromise is really beneficial to me. It somehow hides me from his eyes, too, since I have the light of the street lanterns behind me. I don’t think he’s staring at me, but I’m too much aware of how I must look. Worse than last time. At least there’s no doubt he has seen some food lately. I feel simply compelled to ask, “You’ve been to a… restaurant?”

“Yes, but I haven’t eaten yet.”

His voice is still soft, but there is such joy in it that I can’t resist turning to see his smile. The eyes look too big for his face, but haven’t they always looked like that? Wide, warm and enticing. He continues, “I brought some food home for us.”

He turns back towards his makeshift desk. Yes, it’s still there, the only piece of furniture in the big dusky room: a broad plank placed on two large crates. He takes something from his pockets and undoes the shrinking charm. While he’s conjuring chairs and summoning plates, glasses and cutlery from the corner, I gradually realise that the strengthened smells are quite delicious.

I’m taken unawares when he walks to me and reaches out his hand, grabbing my arm. “Come on, Pads.”

After pulling me down from the windowsill and a couple of steps towards the desk, he lets my arm go and says,“Do you mind if I go down to wash myself a bit and to prepare a bath for you? You can start now and eat something while I’m away. And we’ll continue together.” 

I don’t manage to say anything before he’s summoned a bundle of clothes and left the room, smiling and nodding to me. Why is he so polite? Was he always like this? Not to me, as far as I can remember. I hope he doesn’t just want to avoid me as I’m so filthy… though I almost felt like that about him. H’s given me a chance to grab some food without being embarrassed – without showing him how hungry I am. So what am I waiting for?

Trying to ignore the dirt and dried blood on my hands, I take a spoon and move some casserole onto a plate. This stuff is strange. But it’s food, and filling and quite good, actually. Just have to resist wolfing it all down. And he’s got wine. He wouldn’t have needed to open it. That’s the easiest trick of wandless magic – uncorking bottles. Did wine always taste like this: of pine wood? Remember, Pads, eat and drink slowly... 

There he is already. He smells of soap now. And his hair is dripping. Yes, now he’s come close to me and bent down, so I can see it, and not only see it: he’s dripping on me. And he hugs me, pulls my head against his chest. His robes are so worn-out that the material is smooth like bare skin against my face and my palm, as I push him gently away. Now, don’t get yourself dirty again. You’ve made it clear enough that you are not disgusted by me, but it’s my turn to go and take a bath. 

I feel a bit dizzy as I walk to the door. He follows me, saying,“I’m coming down with you. I’ll go to see Mrs. Porchead and tell her you’re here.”

“Why?”

We start descending the steep stairs, and he holds my arm to support me. Why does it feel as if he were swaying a bit, too, even trembling? There’s a lamp on the landing below us, and as I glance at his face, I think he looks pale. 

But he flashes a broad smile again and answers in the same joyous voice as before, “You’re staying, aren’t you? More than one night. I got an Owl from Dumbledore, you know. So this time I was expecting you.”

“So you already know what’s happened?”

“Not much. But you can tell me later. And in any case there’s no reason not to talk to my landlady about you. She’d notice anyway. I’ve written to you about her, haven’t I? She even comes to the room to see if I’ve hidden any money from her.“

Now we’ve stopped outside the bathroom. Opening the door for me, he continues, speaking quickly, “She’s against the Ministry, as well as against Voldemort, so she’ll be just delighted to hide someone chased by the Aurors. Besides, she’ll be attracted to you.”

Here he winks and pushes me inside. “The towel and the robes are for you. Just enjoy the bath and scrub off some grime. But don’t stay too long. I’ll brush your hair later.”

The lady certainly does not use this bathroom herself. Perhaps some other tenants share it with Remus, since there’s a row of toothbrushes, and some strange tubes and bottles. Other part-humans perhaps? Are they really right calling him a part-human? What am I in that case? I don’t think I want the answer, and luckily there’s only a small piece of a shattered mirror. He must use it for shaving. I lean against the washstand for a while. Not even considering whether I should shave. 

Just postponing the moment of getting undressed. When pulling off these rags, I’m not surprised by the fear that I’ll never wear them again. The robes I was given in… there. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I kept them all the while I was in the south, and I washed them again at Kathy’s and hid them to pull them on before leaving – and again before leaving Barbara’s. Perhaps I must continue leaving to be free. And Remus says I’ll stay. 

As if he had stripped me to the skin. I hide my ragged robes in a corner, so perhaps I can find them in case… 

This is no time for thinking. I want to get to eat more. I just jump into the bath, without looking at this body – or corpse. The water is warm and I close my eyes, just staying here for a while allowing the grime to dissolve. But the thoughts of the food and wine return, and I rub my skin hurriedly and wash my head without even trying to do anything about the tangles.

The towel is a bit too small for me to manage to dry myself without looking at my body, but I do it as quickly as possible. These simple black robes are clean and neat. A bit short for me, of course, as they’re Remus’s. I admire myself and realise that he’s given his better robes to me, and then I notice they’re worn-out, too, but skilfully patched.

At this moment there’s a knock at the door. “Pads, are you ready? Mrs. Porchead would like to meet you.”

I wonder if he really knows what he’s doing. Dumbledore would certainly have mentioned it, if I was supposed to be introduced to some goblin revolutionaries. This thought amuses me. Exactly. We’ll do what he told us to do. But who says we can’t do something else, too? And it seems to be a necessity. I just hope she won’t reveal me to all her tenants. I push the dripping mane from my face and open the door.

She’s right there. I glance quickly at Remus, who smiles and nods approvingly, as if proud of having dressed me up. Then I have to focus my full attention on the landlady. 

She looks incredible. I’ve never seen a female goblin before. Her features and her figure are not very different from those male goblins I’ve seen at Gringotts. She’s squat and somehow all out of proportions, but her shiny silk robe with gold embroideries generously reveals a curvaceous figure. Her tiny eyes measure me suspiciously under quite masculine bushy eyebrows, so that I’m surprised she doesn’t at least have a small goatee. Perhaps she has shaved? She’s coloured her mouth a garish red, and on top of her high elaborate hairdo she’s wearing a hat decorated with an enormous feather of a peacock. 

I bow my head slightly. My hair falls over my face again, just in time to cover my amusement. She may have noticed only amazement without any assessment. 

Finally Remus remembers the etiquette. “Mrs Porchead, may I introduce Mr Sirius Black.”

I’m startled to realise that he is, indeed, revealing my identity to her.

“Sirius, meet my landlady, Mrs Porchead.” 

Glancing cautiously through my mane, I see her reach out her hand, palm downwards. I shake the hair from my face and take the couple of steps towards her. Even though she’s a mere goblin, I can’t help being astonished that she volunteers to be touched by me. I gingerly take her hand and lightly press my chapped lips on it. Her fingers are inhumanly long, and each one is decorated with several heavy jewels.

She speaks in a high voice and as if she were giving orders, “You are from one of the best wizard families. I can see that and I like what I see. A proper wizard, not a part-human. But you left them all and you don’t mind being everyone’s enemy.”

Truly hoping that the other tenants are not listening, I hear myself repeat words I must have learnt decades ago, “This is absolutely my pleasure, Mrs Porchead: to be introduced to such a lovely lady…”

Remus cuts in, “And to be accepted under such a lady’s protection…”

“Mr Black, you are Mr Lupin’s guest,” she says, and I can hear the extreme contempt in her voice as she utters his name. “Mr Lupin, you certainly understand that hiding such an important person must be compensated for properly, especially because I am eager to hide him and you can trust that nobody else will know about him.” 

When I glance at him, he closes his eyes for a moment before responding, “Thank you, Mrs. Porchead. If you will excuse us now… My guest is tired after his journey.”

She is still eyeing me, and now she twists her wide mouth into a grin and actually winks at me. I can’t help but return the grin. But I’m relieved – though at first startled – by her sudden disappearance in a flash of light. 

How could Sirius still look so stunning? Up in the room he had appeared as frail and lost – or trapped. Now in the black robes, with his black hair framing his washed, white face, he rather resembled a corpse. Still, every movement of his, every facial expression not only reflected whom he had been, but manifested itself as exaggerated, thus declaring incredible tenacity, persistence in living. Remus simply enjoyed watching the grace with which Sirius greeted the goblin lady: the arrogant gesture of his head, the charming grin. Then again, it was heartbreaking to see the gauntness of his face emphasising every twitch of his mouth, his wasted wrist poking out of the too short sleeve, and his fingers taking hold of Mrs. Porchead’s hand as if both rejoicing and hesitating, when offered such a treat as touching another person.

Remus was amused and proud – both of Sirius and of his own correct guess – when his landlady really seemed to take a fancy to the fugitive. In any case, he had considered it wiser not to try to hide Sirius’s presence from her even for one evening. If she had found out that Remus had taken him in – even if she thought he was just a dog – without her permission, she might have spread the information out of pure malice.

Having left Sirius in the bathroom, Remus had gone down to the door of her flat. She had been relatively satisfied with the Muggle money he had given to her. He was now only a couple of months behind in his payments, and he had managed to keep enough in his pocket, so that he would be able to feed Sirius and himself for a few days. But she certainly did not waste polite phrases on a half-human.

“Ah, it’s you,” she had greeted him, opening the door only a crack. “It’s high time, too. You’re late – only two months late. So where’s my money?”

“Good evening, Mrs Porchead. I got paid for two days’ work tonight. I’m sorry I didn’t have time to go to Gringotts before they closed.” 

She had grabbed the notes quickly. Her long fingers seemed to express emotions more shamelessly than her face, which did not hide her basic feelings towards Remus either. Now, besides the regular greediness, the fingers, too, had been explicit in contempt – towards Muggle money in their case.

“Stupid Muggles, using metal only for small change… All right, this must do. But did you not get more?”

This time Remus had even taken pleasure in his ability to lie. He had shaken his head sadly. “The Muggles pay dishwashers even less than wizards do. But… excuse me, Mrs Porchead, would you allow me to tell you a piece of news I just heard? It concerns the famous fugitive, Sirius Black.”

He had whispered the last words. Not that he would have been afraid that anyone else would hear. The two young squibs and two half-goblins who had rented probably rather decent flats in the building were always out at pubs at this time in the evening. But he had wanted his landlady to realise immediately that the information was confidential. 

Just as he had wished, she had become curious. “Have the Aurors now caught him?”

“No, in that case the news wouldn’t be a secret.” 

She had eyed Remus suspiciously, refusing to repeat her words of solidarity towards a pure-blood rebel who defied both Fudge and Voldemort. A year earlier she had been so excited about an article she had read in the Quibbler that she had even condescended to mentioning it to her new half-human tenant. Since she hated the Ministry’s policies of denying goblins their equal rights, she had been eager to believe that Fudge was wrong and that Mr Black was innocent and actually fighting against Voldemort, whose servants were plotting to bring their leader back to power. Remus just had to trust she was still convinced that hiding Sirius would be somehow profitable to her.

“You see, I went to school with him, so I got to know him well, even though he was from one of the best families… So now he has come to seek shelter here.”

Her eyes had widened, and she had looked thoughtful for a moment, before replying slowly in a calculating manner, “You can hide him in the room. But I want to meet him first.”

Remus had been prepared for that demand – and for her fascination with the fugitive. It was also understandable that she did not want to take any responsibility. 

But now the mention of compensation released in him a wave a fatigue, which had been kept at bay by his pleasure in watching Sirius. Was it a virtue not to argue with his landlady? Perhaps a lot of what he had learnt to take pride in – as his ability to control his aggression – was simply resignation and due to lack of energy. 

At the moment he was too tired to start worrying about how impossible it would be for him to compete with any Aurors or Death Eaters who might offer a reward for hints at Sirius Black’s whereabouts. How could he trust that a chance for an immediate profit would not override Mrs Porchead’s opposition ideals? But now he had to push aside even his anguish caused by the prospect that she would demand a higher rent – just when he needed to spend more to take care of Sirius. First of all he needed to take Sirius up to the room and to get to eat something himself, too. Then they would have to talk about Harry and Voldemort and… Peter. 

After his landlady had left them alone, resorting to her impressive goblin magic to retire to her flat, Remus grabbed Sirius’s arm and started leading him up the stairs. Suppressing a sigh, he glanced at the man beside him – and he knew at once what he wanted to do, and he did it. He reached out his other hand and pulled aside the veil of damp matted hair that hung across Sirius’s face.

“I like what I see,” he said, winking at Sirius.

They burst into laughter simultaneously. Guffawing uncontrollably they staggered up the steep staircase, leaning against each other, both of them pretending that the laughter was the only reason they needed support, and arrived at Remus’s door out of breath. 

Stepping into the dark room, Remus lit a cold blue flame on his palm. Having realised that Sirius was staring at him, probably because he had not used his wand, he grinned. “You see, I’ve learnt a bit of simple wandless magic, too. Not as much as you. As you told me in the letters.” 

He did not make the flame too bright before letting it slide onto the desk, and he hurried to fill their plates and glasses. They ate, sitting on different sides of the narrow desk, not quite opposite to each other, without exchanging a word. Stealing glances at Sirius, who still looked alarmingly pale in the dim shivering light, Remus felt that Sirius was doing the same to him.

Although he had got used to abstaining from alcohol, Remus now decided to indulge in enjoying the taste of retsina, which he had somehow missed. He wanted to fill his own glass again, so that Sirius would not end up drinking too much. Or was he treating Sirius too gingerly? 

After Remus had quickly emptied his plate, the saturation allowed and almost forced both his body and his mind to relax. He leant back, lifting the glass to his lips only to breathe in the resin fragrance, without any intention to empty the glass again. Now he was not afraid to keep looking at Sirius long enough for their eyes to finally meet. 

Sirius stared at him for a moment, chewed and swallowed quickly and grabbed the glass. “Strange wine.”

“I got it from the Greek restaurant where I worked today. The food is Greek, too – moussaka, aubergine casserole.”

“Aubergine… strange, but all right.”

Having eaten a bit more, Sirius continued, without looking up from the plate, “Are you going to work… tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow. I have some money. And I think I’ll have to Apparate out to meet some members of the Order. I don’t know if you’d like us to go together…”

Sirius pushed the empty plate aside, and poured the rest of the wine into his glass. “Do you know how Voldemort…?”

“No. Dumbledore only wrote that Harry had been forced to help Voldemort and that Peter had… helped him, too.”

“The rat, yes.” Sirius’s voice was sombre but compulsively indifferent.

“Can you tell me now?”

“It’s hard… It’s complicated. Harry…” Sirius paused abruptly and seemed to concentrate on putting down his glass, as if he had forced his hand not to tremble.

“Dumbledore says Harry’s all right.”

Sirius’s eyes shot up to meet Remus’s. “What does he know! Does he say that they did no harm to Harry?”

Remus struggled not to break their eye-contact. He realised that until now his peace of mind had not been disturbed by any concern due to Voldemort’s return – at least not in any negative way. His only worry had been caused by the uncertainty about Peter’s role. Otherwise the day had passed in hopeful expectation. Only now was he startled by the thought of Harry having been harmed. Sirius’s voice had gained urgency, and the haunted expression on his face reminded Remus of their encounter a year earlier. He felt like reaching out to touch at least Sirius’s hand. Instead, he placed his further on the desk, for Sirius to grab, should he want to. 

“Tell me the most important part. Some details can wait.”

Still focusing on the awkward movements of his own hand for a moment, Sirius took another swig of wine and grimaced. When he did begin, he spoke quickly, without turning his gaze away from Remus, though mainly avoiding his eyes.

“It was… a trap. The Defence teacher was Crouch… the son, who was supposed to have died in… Azkaban. He helped Harry win… I helped him! But Harry and this boy got there together… The rat was there. He murdered the boy! He summoned Voldemort’s father’s dust from the grave and cut off his own hand and he… took blood from Harry’s arm. And Voldemort was there: he rose from the cauldron in his new body. He is back. The rat brought Voldemort back. And Voldemort tried to kill Harry… but… he saw James and Lily, and they helped him escape. And Dumbledore forced him to tell us all that in detail, so here you are! I’ll give you all the details…”

When the urgent voice finally broke, Remus could not resist the temptation any longer. He reached for Sirius’s hand.

“No, that’s enough. Harry is safe at Hogwarts now. And we are back… we who are left are back together to fight against Voldemort as we used to.”

“Not all together. Not Fudge. Dumbledore told him... and he doesn’t believe it!”

“I’m not surprised. What do we care! Dumbledore wants us to get the Order together. And we are together, you and me…”

Remus felt an unbearable urge to get closer to Sirius. He stood up and, having reluctantly left Sirius’s hand for a moment, he walked around the desk and pulled Sirius up to embrace him. This time he was not going to let Sirius leave him. But he could not say it aloud. Any more than reveal the anguish he was trying to suppress by reliving their embrace a year earlier. The moment of deceptive exuberant joy. One dominating thought. That he had got Sirius back. 

The man Remus was now holding tight was dressed in Remus’s better robes, fed with the food Remus had brought home – and he was going to stay. Remus could not afford to think about anyone else yet. Even if something was irrevocably too late now and it was his fault. Sirius would not bear talking about Peter – perhaps ever again. For Sirius there was only the rat. But there was no need to talk about the rat or Peter now in any case. 

“No need to talk more. Time for bed,” Remus whispered. 

He took a step back and slid his hands down Sirius’s arms. As he squeezed Sirius’s hands, he sensed a wince of pain. In the dim light he had discerned scratches on these calloused hands, but only now, when gently turning the palms up, did he see why Sirius must have been so clumsy holding the cutlery.

“I’m sorry,” Remus hurried to say, as he felt that something else besides pity would soon make it hard for him to talk. 

Seeing wounds had never been a rare experience for him. Looking at wounds closely – almost admiring them in his own flesh – had been a peculiar pleasure for him since his childhood. Why did he feel nearly disabling nausea now?

These nasty wounds, small but inflamed. Harry’s arm bleeding, cut by Peter. Peter’s hand… He realised that he had not managed to hold back the tears, when Sirius spoke. “It’s nothing. Just my paws cut on some sharp stones.” 

Healing these wounds, at least, was something Remus could do, right now.

My head starts swirling when he pulls me up so suddenly. This is what I’ve feared… and yearned for. He’s dressed me, and stripped me to the skin again. I can sense him ineffably close, surrounding me, and there is no escape. No reason to escape. 

He hurts me. No, it’s just the old wounds on my palms, and now I’ve hurt him. I can’t stand seeing his eyes like this, so I say quickly, “It’s nothing. Just my paws cut on some sharp stones.”

I should have told him not to squeeze my hands like that. Not to come so close and touch me at all, perhaps. As he walks me to the corner, I try my best not to limp, but he notices it. Smiling, he playfully pushes me to sit down on his mattress. I give him a grin, but he is too cautious now. While examining my bare feet he says, “Do you believe me when I say I’ve learnt a bit more about healing, too?”

That reminds me of something, and so as to divert the attention from myself, I say, “I’ve wondered… How have you…?”

But I remember he’s told me about it in those unbearably long letters. Not complained, just described how he’d gradually learnt to stop the lone wolf from hurting himself every time. With the help of an animal’s presence: a bird’s or a cat’s. He just replaced us with animals. No, he didn’t mean that, and there’s no need to talk about that now.

“Oh yes, you told me,” I mutter, but I don’t think he’s listening.

He’s left me for a moment, and now he returns, holding a small and almost empty glass jar. Kneeling beside me again, he speaks in the same joyous tone as he did when seeing me as a man for the first time. “This should work well when I do this to others than myself, particularly when I do this to you. The soothing ointment will cool the skin. Still, when I proceed to use my wand to make the skin regenerate, you’ll feel the charm like burning, because the wounds are inflamed. But it will last only for a moment. May I do it?”

As soon as I’ve nodded, he pushes me to lie down. I close my eyes and try my best to relax, to concentrate on the knowledge that there is no need to escape. He’s surrounded me with the scents of garlic and soap, and my human senses have started to tell me even too much. Now this is another odour I remember. I can give it a name. Anise. Was it in a drink he used to prefer when we went out to dance? 

His gentle fingers rub my skin on the edges of the wounds. One of my hands is freezing, and he takes the other. Soon I’m shivering, but I feel a blanket being spread over me. When all my paws are almost numb, his hand caresses my temple. Each wound burns in turn. It’s over, and he lays his body down beside mine.


End file.
